


Shape of a Touch

by BlossomsintheMist



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Affection, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Domesticity, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Kissing, M/M, Massage, Waiting up, back massage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-12
Updated: 2015-01-12
Packaged: 2018-03-07 08:34:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3168392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlossomsintheMist/pseuds/BlossomsintheMist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke stays up late waiting for Anders, and isn't disappointed.  Domestic sweetness set in between Acts 2 and 3.  Written for Impressioniste because she needed some fluff, and thus starring her Garrett Hawke, to the best of my ability.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shape of a Touch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Impressioniste](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Impressioniste/gifts).



He hardly realizes he’s fallen asleep, which makes sense, really, you don’t, usually, realize you’re asleep, do you?  There is the scent of parchment and ink under his cheek, the shape of his open journal, the sharp angles of a desk, the uncomfortable hunch of his shoulders that has an ache building right between his shoulder blades, beneath his neck, but he’s dreaming of warmth and Anders, and he doesn’t wake until the same voice that echoes soft and teasing, echoing and fading, through his dreams is right behind him.

“Hawke,” the voice is soft, tired, a little chiding, and two hands settle onto his shoulders.  “What are you doing over here?”  A gentle brush of knuckles against his cheek.  “Isn’t falling asleep over a quill more my style than yours?”

Hawke jerks awake with a violent start, adrenaline rushing through his veins, slamming into his head, and he’s reaching for his staff before he knows it.  “I—” he gasps, feeling the old fear, the reckless rush of frantic movement and need to get up, to protect the others, templars coming for him and Bethany and Father, no, it’s the Blight, it’s darkspawn, and he has to—but the panic fades almost immediately, as the familiar surroundings of his estate, the familiar scents of dog and linen and candle wax and paper and firewood, the reek of the sewer and the scent of elfroot and the indefinable scent that is just  _Anders_  twine in around him.  “Anders,” he says with a sigh, and tips his head back against Anders’ chest when he tugs on his shoulders, coaxing him to.  He can see, from his upside-down vantage point, the slight smile on Anders’ lips, the tilt of his scruffy chin and the moist curve of his lips.

“Just me, love,” Anders says, and leans down to kiss him.  The fit is odd with the reversed directions, but Anders’ mouth is still warm and coaxing over his, the touch of his breath tingling and welcome.  Hawke sighs and tilts his head into it. Anders crosses his arms over Hawke’s chest and nudges him in the cheek with his nose, pressing a gentle kiss there.  “It’s late,” he murmurs.  “What are you still doing up?”

“Waiting for you,” Hawke sighs, wincing as his sore back stretches as he bends backward over the chair.  “I must have fallen asleep.”

There is a brief flash of guilt over Anders’ features, and Hawke wishes he hadn’t said anything, but then Anders spreads his hands out over Hawke’s chest, caressing through the thin fabric of his shirt, and Hawke sighs and tilts his head back.  “Thank you, love,” Anders says in a low voice.  “I’m sorry for being late back.”

Hawke reaches up with one hand and curves it around the back of Anders’ neck, twisting to kiss him on the mouth, pulling him down into it until it is warm and wet and deep.  “Don’t be,” he breathes against his lips.

They kiss for a long few moments before Anders pulls back, takes Hawke’s hands and squeezes before he lets them go and says, “Well, I don’t know about you, but it’s been a long day.  I’m ready for bed.”  Hawke nods and turns to follow and winces at the pull on his spine.  Anders notices, of course, however Hawke tries to cover it, and reaches out to rest one hand on his side.  “What is it, love?” he asks.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Hawke says, trying to play it off.  “That’s what I get for trying to sleep in a hard wooden chair.  Mother always said that if you’re going to sleep, you should do it in a bed, or at least a bedroll, and yet here I am …”

It’s not that, though, or at least, not just that.  It’s the weight of it all, too, the worry—that he’ll do something wrong, that he’ll fail them,  _who_ , he isn’t certain any longer—the city, the ragtag bunch of people he loves and calls friends, fail them somehow, like he failed his family, father and Bethany and failed Carver, too, in a different way, because Carver left, didn’t he?  And then, most spectacularly, failed his mother.  And the weight settles in his spine and his shoulders, and sometimes he feels like it will never leave, never lighten.  But when he’s with Anders it’s less, somehow, like Anders has pushed it off him, a bit, rolled it back, and he looks at Anders’ smile and the flush down his cheeks and neck when Hawke nuzzles against the soft skin just under his jaw, the way Anders laughs when Hawke mouths soft kisses against his throat and collarbone, the way he smiles when Hawke smiles at him, and everything is a bit easier.

And this time, Anders leads him back into bed, and slides his hands under his shirt, undoing it deftly.  Hawke arches up, catches his breath, and Anders skims his hands down the thick muscles along his spine, his hands worn and rough but firmly gentle, warm, and then he tugs off Hawke’s shirt and coaxes him to turn over, and then presses at the base of his spine, and Hawke hisses, tries to cover a jerking wince, but it’s too late.

“Easy,” Anders says on a laugh, “I’m not trying to hurt you here,” and then he’s rubbing his thumbs hard against the twisted muscles, and Hawke makes a tight, desperate noise he barely even recognizes as his own voice and tries not to writhe too obviously under his hands.  It’s a losing battle, though, as Anders kneads and soothes and strokes, soft touches of healing magic cool under his fingers, twining through sore flesh.  Hawke feels wrenched open, spread apart in Anders’ hands, the same way Anders makes him feel when he looks at him, when he smiles, when they kiss, like Anders is seeing all of him, holding all of him, has touched every last part of him.  He’s hot in the face with the intimacy of it and sprawled, useless and too relaxed to move, face down in the pillows, when Anders finally pulls his hands away and leans forward to curl one hand around the back of Hawke’s neck, press a kiss to the back of his head.

“I should have done something for you,” Hawke mumbles; making a concerted effort just to think.  His mouth doesn’t seem to want to form words; his lips and tongue feel clumsy and wet against the cloth of his pillow, which tastes like soap and Anders’ hair and lavender.  “You’re … you’re the one who was out late.”

“And you’re the one who waited up for me,” Anders says, and the depth of the warmth, the caring, in his voice is unmistakable.  “Go to sleep, love.  I’ll be back in just a moment.”

But Hawke can’t sleep; he lingers on the edge of sleep until he feels Anders slide into bed, press back against his chest, and he can curve his arm over his waist to rest on his hip and press his nose against the back of Anders’ neck, where it curves into his shoulder.  Anders sighs and puts his hand over Hawke’s, and then Hawke is asleep, murmuring, “I love you,” into Anders’ skin on his last waking breath.


End file.
